


things that go bump in the night

by perfchan



Series: it's you that's haunting me [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Bottom Lance (Voltron), But can be read as stand alone, Established Relationship, Happy Sex, Horror, Humor, M/M, POV Lance (Voltron), Sequel, Three H's you need in your life, punky paranormal enthusiast!Keith, recovering dudebro!Lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-17 00:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13648005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: When Lance began helping Keith film ghost hunting videos, he had no idea the spooks that would be in store for him. He had even less of a clue that he would fall, and fall hard, for his partner. Months later, the two are finally dating---and still making kick ass videos about the most haunted places they can find. Neither of them expect one of those places to be the airbnb that Lance books for one of their expeditions.A little sexy, a little campy, and a little bit of a sequel. Still a not-too-serious ghost hunting au.





	things that go bump in the night

**Author's Note:**

> hello again! This is a oneshot that takes place after my fic: “it’s you that’s haunting me.” I recommend reading that fic first, but it’s not strictly necessary! If you need a quick synopsis, basically: Keith and Lance make ghost hunting videos and have a sweet, slow, and spooky time falling for one another. This fic is a little sexier (and maybe a little scarier?) than its predecessor. I hope you enjoy:

***

 

Lance sucks in a breath: an open mouthed gasp against Keith’s mouth. He feels Keith’s smirk in reply as ice cold hands resume their wandering under his sweatshirt. 

 

“Keith,” he whines into the curve of his neck, panting heavy just underneath Keith’s jaw. “Cold.” 

 

It’s an accusation that, by now, he’s made countless times. Keith, entirely unrepentant, does not pause; in fact, chilly fingertips find their way under the waistband of his boxers---

 

“Ah,” Lance breathes, plaintive, and Keith’s hand goes still. “At least let a guy get in the door, huh?” 

 

Keith removes his hands from under Lance’s sweatshirt and promptly tucks them under his armpits, his arms crossed. “We are in the door.” 

 

Lance stifles a giggle at Keith’s sullen expression. He always gets a little pedantic when he’s horny. Right now his lips, glistening from being kissed, are pursed into a slight frown. No matter how many times Lance has seen it, that pout still makes him weak. 

 

“C’mon, let’s explore!” He picks up Keith’s duffle from the entryway (because they are quite literally, just  _ barely  _ in the door) and hikes it over his shoulder along with his own bag.  “Home sweet home,” Lance croons, tossing his keys on the kitchen counter. 

 

The airbnb rental is only home for all of three nights, but that doesn’t stop Lance from settling into the loft with gusto. The kitchen connects to a charming living room that could be straight out of an instagram model’s favorite backdrop. A pretty, narrow staircase leads up to a cozy bedroom and a bathroom with a surprisingly spacious shower. It’s perfect. He couldn’t have picked a better place to stay while they film the latest episode for their ghost hunting channel. Not only is the loft super nice, it’s also only ten minutes away from the purportedly haunted train station where they’ll be filming. 

 

“This is what happens when you let me decide where we stay,” Lance begins, comfortably picking up a discussion (okay, an argument) that’s been ongoing since before they were dating. Lance shivers at the memory of the infamous room fourteen that put him in the same bed as Keith in the first place. So, obviously, it hasn’t all been bad, but Keith has a knack for choosing the absolute seediest motels---usually scaring the shit out of Lance even before the camera starts rolling. 

 

Keith scoffs, settling into his well-worn counter argument more out of habit than actual distaste for the room. 

 

_ If only we could live here for real _ , Lance catches himself thinking. He stifles the domestic fantasy before it begins; as much as he’d love to share a place with Keith, he tells himself they haven’t been together long enough for that conversation. Sure Keith spends a lot of time at Lance’s apartment, but moving in together? That’s a different level of commitment....

 

Any and all coherent thought soon comes to a grinding halt anyways---once inside the bedroom, Keith pulls the bags off Lance’s shoulder, letting them fall to the floor with a thump. 

 

“Warm now,” he says, wiggling pale, calloused fingers at Lance, before closing the gap between them. 

 

“Mhmm,” Lance agrees against Keith’s lips. They part for him willingly. He slips his tongue inside, barely resisting a smirk of his own when Keith responds in kind, eager. Keith somehow manages to kick off his boots without interrupting the kiss; gently biting at Lance’s bottom lip as he steps out of his shoes, his hand on the back of Lance’s neck heavy and insistently pulling Lance down to his height in socks instead of boots. 

 

Lance shifts as well. Hands that automatically settle featherlight on either side of Keith’s neck---thumbs to run over his jawline, fingers to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck---move across his shoulders, divesting him of his jacket. He looks ridiculously good in the simple long sleeved, high-necked black tee that’s waiting underneath, but soon Lance will be getting rid of that too. 

 

Suddenly impatient, Lance untangles himself from Keith’s arms long enough to yank his own sweatshirt over his head, undershirt and all. Keith’s hands are back on his hips in an instant, but Lance scoots away, toying at the button on his jeans.  “Not so fast, Mr. Can’t Keep His Hands Off the Goods,” he lowers his voice to his most seductive register. “Gotta surprise for you.” 

 

Keith groans. “Not the tacky flavored lube again, please no. The names alone--” 

 

Huffing, Lance shoo’s Keith to the edge of the bed, indicating that he should sit down. “Excuse you. ‘Anal Appletini’ was actually---” 

 

“Rimmin’ Raspberry,” Keith counters, hands over his face. He lets out an exasperated sigh like he’ll never recover. “Before long, you’ll have us fucking to douchey music too, Buckcherry or---”

 

Eying Lance through his fingers, Keith trails off as Lance makes a show of shimmying out of his jeans. Keith’s hands slowly sink into his lap. 

 

Jeans tossed aside, Lance adjusts the waistband of a pair of very short shorts. Nonchalant (and therefore completely obvious), he stretches, arms high above his head, rolling up on his toes, arching his back. The boxers are a milky shade of blue, just light enough to really pop against the rich color of his skin. 

 

The look on Keith’s face---eyes trailing up his legs, mouth parted unwittingly, lust pulling color into his cheeks---banishes any glimmer of self-consciousness that might’ve been threatening Lance’s mood. Lingerie isn’t really his thing, but sexy booty shorts? Yeah, this he can do. He puts just a little extra sway into his hips as he meets Keith on the bed, one knee on either side of Keith’s hips, straddling him. 

 

“I’ll have you know,” he says, fingers carding through Keith’s hair, brushing it out of his eyes, “my sex playlists have always been classy. Justin Timberlake and John Legend and shit.” 

Keith smiles against Lance’s sternum, dark eyes looking up into his. “You are so…” The thought is apparently lost because, instead of completing it, he begins a trails of kisses over Lance’s stomach. His hands move up the back of Lance’s thighs, under the shorts, cupping his ass. 

 

“Guess you like them, then?” Lance asks, the picture of innocence. 

 

Keith pauses, mouth just over the drawstring. He licks his lips before responding, voice huskier than usual: “Make your legs look really long.” 

 

As if he weren’t already tenting the boxers’ minimal fabric, the praise goes right to Lance’s cock. He lowers himself into Keith’s lap, grinding against him as he catches his mouth with his own. Keith’s fingers sink deeper into his skin as he sucks along his collarbone, enough to bruise. “They  _ are _ really long,” he gets out, breath labored. 

 

That’s too much for Keith. Lance’s stomach lurches as Keith stands, taking Lance with him, and flips him onto the bed. “Lube?” he asks, already squatting to look through their bags. 

 

“My bag, left side pocket,” Lance grins, one hand in his shorts, stroking himself. (And yes, he did bring the douchey flavored lube because, during sex or not, he  _ lives _ to exasperate Keith). 

 

Keith finds it (shakes his head wordlessly at the name on the bottle) and tosses it on the bed, before unceremoniously stripping out of tight black jeans and leaving them in a heap on the floor, along with the rest of their clothes. Lance hooks one leg around his back as Keith crawls over him on the bed, situating himself between Lance’s legs. 

 

He pauses as his fingers brush the scar on Lance’s thigh. The stitches are long gone, but there’s a distinct line of pale, raised skin. Lance watches his eyes flutter shut as he kisses the edge of it, delicate and light. Lance runs the back of his knuckles over Keith’s cheek, his lips, an unspoken,  _ Hey. Stop it with that face. It’s okay.  _

 

“Keith,” Lance breaths, and Keith wastes no time in beginning to nip into the skin of his inner thigh--- teeth and tongue, and open mouth kisses. 

 

Lance soon diverts Keith’s attention elsewhere, as he lifts his ass from the bed to squirm out of the shorts. Keith pushes his hands away, and takes over, much more efficient. Keith is smoldering eyes and single minded determination in most things, but with Lance in front of him, even more so---he’s far too direct to tease for long. Coating his fingers in lube, he circles over Lance’s entrance. He pushes one in at the same time that he takes Lance’s cock into his mouth. 

 

The stretch is good. Lance whines, definitely babbling something. Possibly not in English. His hand slips into Keith’s hair, gets caught in the tangles and tugs. One heel digs into Keith’s back. 

 

“Hnnnnn,” Lance loses himself in the heat of Keith’s mouth, breathing deep as Keith adds another finger, his own bunched up in the sheets at his side. He jerks off the sheets as Keith curls his fingers just right. “G-good, Keith---god---”

 

Keith’s eyes flick up to Lance. He pulls off, saliva threading the air between Lance’s tip and his swollen lips. He doesn’t realize it, but his tongue smooths away the dribble at the edge of his mouth, waiting. 

 

“I’m good,” Lance gets out, shakily. He could come, easily, but not yet. 

 

“One more,” Keith argues, and Lance complies, huffing before he relaxes back against the bed, taught muscles becoming slack under Keith’s touch. 

 

And then. Fingers withdrawn, Lance grabs at Keith, pulling him closer. He grins, planting a sloppy kiss over Keith’s nose, more or less missing his mouth. “Babe,” he commands, adjusting their positions. Keith complies, the edge of his mouth curling upwards as Lance tugs their bodies together. 

 

Keith’s hair is long enough that it falls over Lance’s face, tickling slightly, as Keith’s weight settles on top of him. He pushes in, concentrating, slow, at the same time that Lance pushes his hair back with one clumsy motion. Dark eyes meet his--intense with want, time suspended for a beat, waiting to move. 

 

“H-hey there,” Lance winks at him. It’s more goofy than sexy-- silly enough that Keith actually snorts, a puff of air against his face. Lance would almost certainly retaliate, but his mental ability to do so abandons him as Keith starts to move. And then he’s nothing but heat, heat, scrabbling at Keith’s back, clinging as Keith fucks into him, deliberate and strong. 

 

“So h--, so hot, Lance. Fu-ck--” Keith’s voice crashes out against him, the light rasp that always edges his words hardening into something more guttural. 

 

Lance’s reply comes out in hitches, timed precisely with the roll of Keith’s hips, not so much words as it is pleas: “Ahn-hard-der, mmthere, y-yes, Ke--Kei--Keith, gonna--” 

 

He shudders, coming. Keith rocks into his hips, expletives dropping mindlessly from his lips, and soon he follows. He collapses into Lance, pulling out with a groan that Lance feels against his neck. His hands are reluctant to leave Lance’s skin and he traces a mindless pattern over Lance’s back, tucked against his heaving chest. 

 

Lance swallows, catching his breath. “So, really, Buckch--” 

 

“Don’t.” Keith pinches him, earning a squawk. Lance reciprocates in kind, pinning Keith back against the pillows with long limbs, and a quick mouth, and an unwavering desire for more: more crooked teeth smiles, more dry voiced retorts, more pale skin, dark hair and darker eyes, more Keith.  

 

*

 

“Admit it, this place is way better than the cruddy motel you wanted to stay in,” Lance insists, much much later, when rumpled sheets have finally been pulled over them, and neither one is fully awake. 

 

Keith agrees: it is better. And it’s a shame that Lance is too drowsy to celebrate his victory, but as he slips out of consciousness, he’s content. 

 

*

 

With a jolt, Lance’s eyes open. 

 

He’s disoriented, sitting up in the unfamiliar bed before his sleep-sluggish mind completely works out where he is. Right, the airbnb. With Keith. In the morning they’ll be going to the location for their latest video. Okay. 

 

Beside him, Keith’s back rises and falls in a languid rhythm. Lance breathes deep. His fingers twitch against the top of the blanket. There’s no reason to feel this uneasy...

 

Weird. It’s just weird that he woke up so abruptly for no reason. Frowning in the dark, Lance shifts, ready to settle back against Keith, and, 

 

He inhales sharply. 

 

Because there’s a pair of eyes watching him from the corner of the room. 

 

The breath he sucked in seems to stagnate in his lungs. He gropes at the sheets beneath him, afraid to look away, scrambling backwards in an ineffective attempt at escape. 

 

It takes a step forward. It---whatever  _ it _ is---gets one measure closer to him in the dark. And then another. Two black pupils rimmed in white approach until they hover just at the end of the bed. Staring directly at him. 

 

“Keith,” his voice comes out a whimper, low and terrified, barely audible. Panicking, he taps at his shoulder. 

 

Keith blindly nestles into his pillow. He murmurs in response, fast asleep. At the noise, Lance glances down at him, just for a split second. When he looks back up, the eyes are gone. 

 

“No,” Lance whines, “No, nonono,” he fumbles for his phone, wildly looking around the room. Finally, finally, he manages to get the flashlight on---

 

And there’s nothing there. 

 

He whips the light over the foot of the bed, hands shaking. Nothing. The glow of the flashlight illuminates their bags, clothes discarded over the floor, the closet door tightly shut. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

 

Lance holds the light steady over the room, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat. Nothing is there. Nothing is wrong. It can’t have been real. 

 

It takes a long time for his pulse to slow. 

 

Nothing is there. 

 

Longer still for him to work up the courage to turn the light off. 

 

Nothing is there. 

 

Trembling, he eventually pulls the covers back over himself. He gets as close to Keith as possible, one arm looped around him, pressing his chest against Keith’s back, forehead resting on the nape of his neck. He keeps his eyes tightly shut. It seems like hours before he can relax enough to fall back asleep. 

 

He can’t shake the feeling that they’re being watched. 

 

* 

 

A strong hand squeezes Lance’s foot. He makes a feeble attempt at withdrawing it, only for the grip to tighten. Resigned, he lifts up his leg as sacrifice. Keith chuckles. 

 

“You have to do the other one too,” Lance warns him, without opening his eyes. He can picture Keith well enough---the slant of his half smirk, feigning exasperation, eyes crinkled in amusement. 

 

Actually, that’s too gorgeous of an image to miss. Lance opens his eyes, peeking out from under the blanket just in time to see Keith--shirtless and soaked in the morning sun, hair mussed from sleep and sex--reach for his other foot. He hesitates when he sees Lance is properly awake, almost sheepish. 

 

“Nope, you started this,” Lance wiggles his toes. Keith complies. Firm pressure from two thumbs pressing on the arch sends him melting back into the pillows with a sigh. 

 

“Hey!” Keith squeezes, “You’re supposed to be waking up, not falling back asleep!!” 

 

“An unforseen flaw in your plan, then, Keithy.” 

 

“Shut up,” 

 

“And to think you’re supposed to be the the brains of this operation.” Lance tuts. 

 

“So what does that make you, huh?” 

 

Daintily withdrawing his foot from Keith’s grip, Lance sits up, waving a hand as though the answer is obvious. “Me? I’m just the beautiful cameraman.” 

 

Keith scoffs, like he’s afraid to laugh properly just in case Lance might be serious. Lance gives him a severe look, and decides, “You’re right, beautiful isn’t the right word. More like ‘smoking hot’ cameraman.” 

 

“Mhmm,” Keith agrees good-naturedly. “Sure Lance.” He clears his throat. “So, I, uh, made coffee.” 

 

Lance follows his gaze to the bedside table. Sure enough, there are two mugs, waiting for them….right next to a foreboding pile of ash. “You made coffee and….?” 

 

“Toast?” Keith offers. 

 

“Toast.” Toast is a generous word for the wonderbread Keith has managed to scorch within an inch of its life. 

 

“It’s pretty edible.” Keith reassures, sliding into bed beside Lance, offering him a piece. 

 

Lance accepts, privately thinking (not for the first time) that eating Shiro’s cooking for extended amounts of time does amazing things for one’s definition of edible. He munches next to Keith, content to let the caffeine settle into his veins before he exerts any additional mental energy. 

 

He’s zoning out before he realizes it, attention somehow stuck on  _ that _ corner of the room. “Last night…” he begins. 

 

“Yeah,” Keith says with a smirk, licking jam off of his thumb.

 

Lance gathers the blankets around him, shakes his head.  “No, you were asleep. I woke up in the middle of the night.” 

 

“Did something happen?” Keith’s expression becomes serious. 

 

“No, nothing! But....” Lance feels a little ridiculous saying it, but this is Keith. He lives for this stuff. So why not. “I felt someone...something….looking at me.”

 

Keith nods, quiet, waiting for Lance to continue. 

 

Though he tries to play off how terrified he was, how real it felt, Lance tells Keith about the eyes that approached him in the dark. How heavy the presence was in their room. Just the thought of it is making him uneasy. 

 

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” 

 

“I tried!!!” Lance flings his arms up in the air, almost toppling over Keith’s coffee. “But then it was gone!” 

 

Lips pursed in thought, Keith is silent. “If you want, we cou--” 

 

Hands in front of Keith’s face, Lance stops him mid-thought, throwing his hands into a time-out. “Mmnope. Un-uh. Nothing happened and nothing is going to happen and we should just forget I mentioned anything about it.” 

 

Keith blinks at him. “I--” 

 

“Anyways, we need to get ready! There’s ghosts awaitin’ Keith!” 

 

Lance slides out of bed, effectively putting a lid on any further discussion. Keith shrugs,  _ Fine, Lance. If you say so _ . 

 

Throwing himself into his morning routine, Lance manges to quell any remnants of disquiet from the weird dream. (Because that’s what it was. A dream. Obviously.) 

 

In the shower, his focus shifts to belting out the obnoxious song that been floating around his head since yesterday. After many extended car rides, Lance has come to find that Keith’s rather unfortunate taste in music seems to be comprised almost solely of soft rock hits from the 80s and the twenty some songs that the mix station plays on repeat. (He doesn’t mind. There are worse things than unironically enjoying Toto). 

 

_ “---think we’re alooone now,  _

 

_ There doesn’t seem to be anyone aroooound---” _

 

“Hmm?” Lance stops singing. “What’d you say, Keith?” He pokes his head out of the shower. The door’s cracked but no one’s there. Huh, seems like he heard something. He rinses the conditioner out of his hair, no longer singing. 

 

He tones, applies his daytime serum, then his favorite moisturizer, does his brows; primping until he’s ready to glow for the camera despite any interruptions to his beauty sleep. He fusses with his hair, tries on the multiple shirts he brought (though they’ll be covered by his jacket). And then finally, he’s ready. 

 

He bounds down the stairs to find Keith deep in thought. He’s reviewing the script he wrote for the episode (the episodes have always been loosely scripted, in terms of what Keith says on camera, but Lance didn’t know that Keith practiced them until fairly recently. He’s practicing now, mouth moving silently over the words to rehearse the video’s intro. His notes are scattered all around him, along with the spare camera batteries and some other essentials he’ll pack in his bag for the evening). Lance scratches at the side of his nose, hiding the soft smile that immediately takes over his face at the scene. 

 

“Almost ready, babe?” Lance asks, pushing a lock of hair behind Keith’s ear. Between his ferocious bedhead and the hickeys spotting his chest, he’s nothing short of a mess. 

 

“That was fast,” Keith says, gradually putting down the notebook, mind still occupied by what he was working on. 

 

“Not really.” Lance laughs. It’s been well over an hour. He helps Keith pack up. “Anything you need me to do while you shower?” 

 

Keith’s brow is slightly furrowed as he goes through a mental checklist. “As long as your gear is charged, we should be good.” 

 

“Sweet.” 

 

Lance lounges in the living room while Keith gets ready. He sends a couple fire snaps to Pidge (Hunk is at work. Pidge must be busy too because they don’t respond) and retweets some dumb shit that makes him laugh. He’s just barely into his sixth or seventh selfie when Keith comes down the stairs, ready to leave. 

 

“Alright!” Lance cheers as they walk out the door, “Maglott Station, get ready to be ghost busted!!” 

 

Keith is smiling his thin-I’m-just-barely-tolerating-this-right-now smile and Lance is about to goad him into a full on scowl when he realizes: “Wait. Where are my keys?” 

 

“Lance.” Keith’s tone is verging on irritated. 

 

Lance’s hands move over the pockets of his coat, then into his jeans. “No, really Keith. They should be…” Actually, when was the last time that he saw them? He crouches down, going through the pockets of his camera bag. “Did you have them?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Okay now, don’t get mad, Keith, I’m sure they’re just….” Lance motions vaguely to the loft. 

 

“I’m not mad.” Keith says, stubborn, as he trails behind Lance, back inside. “We’ll find them.” 

 

*

 

They do not find them. 

 

The keys aren’t in any of their clothes from the day before. They’re not in their duffle bags. They aren’t in the kitchen---Keith checks the countertops, inside the cabinets, the floor, even inside the fridge. They aren’t in the bathroom. Not in the bedroom---Lance checks under the bed, puffs the pillows, pulls the goddamn sheets off the mattress. The keys aren’t in the living room---not in the couch cushions, or behind the television, or under the coffee table. 

 

For  _ over two hours _ they turn the apartment loft upside down and still. They cannot find them. 

 

“What am I gonna do?” Lance sits at the edge of the bed, checking his bag for the upteenth time. “This is so stupid!!” 

 

“Hey, it’s--it’s alright,” Keith tries, settling one hand on Lance’s back. “We’ll find--” 

 

“ _ Will you stop saying that _ !” Lance snaps. “It’s not helping, Keith, and I’m kinda freaking out here!” 

 

“I don’t know what else to say Lance!” Keith stands up, face colored. 

 

“Well not that!!” Lance stands up too, before he even realizes what he’s doing. “Just call me a dumbass for losing my fucking keys and screwing up our---” 

 

Anger flashes in Keith’s eyes and he takes one step closer to Lance, almost threatening. “That’s  _ not _ what I was thinking.” 

 

“Maybe it should be!” 

 

Keith takes a deep breath, visibly restraining his temper. “I don’t want to fight,” he says carefully.

 

Lance deflates, settling back onto the bed. He fumbles at the words. “I’m mad but it’s not like, it’s not like it’s your fault or whatever and I shouldn’t…” His hands pause in midair, realizing he’s talking around the point. “Sorry for being a jerk.” He looks up at Keith and attempts a smile. “We still have plenty of time left to film the opening shots before it gets dark. What if we get a Lyft or something to get to the location and then try to find the keys tomorrow?” 

 

Nodding, Keith sits down beside him. “I’m sure--uh, I mean, yeah, that works.” 

 

“Okay.” He reaches into Keith’s lap squeezes Keith’s hand. “We chill?” 

 

“Frosty.” 

 

Lance laughs. Keith has definitely been spending too much time with him, if he’s saying stuff like that. Gathering up his bag, he puts his jacket back on, once again ready to leave. Keith is behind him as he walks down the stairs. 

 

He stops, halfway to the bottom. 

 

“Keith.” 

 

Keith looks over his shoulder. He swears under his breath. 

 

Lance’s keys are sitting in the middle of the floor. Clear as day. 

 

“What the fuck.” Tears prick at Lance’s eyes, he’s  _ that _ freaked out, because they searched--- _ they fucking searched _ \--there’s no possible way.... 

 

“What the actual fuck!” Lance says louder this time. “Keith, what the---” 

 

“I don’t know,” Keith breathes. “I know I looked…” 

 

“We both did!!” Lance shouts, still halfway down the stairs. Just looking at the keys. Right there. There’s no way…

 

“I think,” Keith begins, but Lance cuts him off: 

 

“Don’t say it!!! Don’t you dare say it!” In a huff, Lance marches down the stairs and grabs his keys off the floor. He turns and pokes Keith in the chest. “We have two more nights in this place, so don’t you  _ dare  _ say it!” 

 

*

 

They finish the shoot around four in the morning. 

 

Maglott Station---the location for their latest episode---was creepy as fuck. 

 

It was built on a cemetery or some shit and if  _ that _ wasn’t bad enough, the year before it was shut down for good, there was a horrific accident there. Involving multiple train cars and a city bus. There are reports of phantom pallbearers on the tracks, disembodied screams between the abandoned cars, a ghostly  _ clack-clack-clack _ of trains that no longer run.  

 

“Fuck,” Lance says, after Keith introduces the location to the camera. 

 

An apt analysis.  

 

Basically, the place was as haunted as Keith had expected. And yes, Lance was terrified. And yes, they recorded footage of what Keith thinks is an  _ entity _ walking behind a train car. (Lance wouldn’t know--by that point he was holding the camera out in front of him, eyes fully closed, filming blind). 

 

According to Keith, it was a very successful night. He tells Lance as much, eyes shining, leaning against the passenger side door of the car. The air has the bite of winter, especially since the sun is not yet risen. But, thanks to his jacket and the warm food settling in his stomach, Lance doesn’t mind the chill. 

 

They’ve just finished eating, another greasy spoon type place---Keith has a bizarre penchant for finding hole-in-the-wall-all-night-diners---and right now, Keith is particularly brilliant. He’s animated, cigarette dangling from his fingers, cheek dimpled as he laughs at Lance’s reactions, thrumming with excitement about what they were able to capture. 

 

“Ready to head home?” Keith asks him, clapping his hands together for warmth now that he’s finished his smoke. 

 

It might be the fact that Lance is exhausted from being out all night, or the fact that he’s spent the last few hours delirious with fear. Or it might just be the fact that Keith is looking up at him, waiting for his response, the smile on his lips natural and unguarded. Whatever it is, something about those words,  _ ready to head home? _ , sounds so perfect coming out of Keith’s mouth that Lance’s heart does a double skip in his chest. 

 

He never wants home to be a different place for the two of them again. 

 

_ “Keith, let’s move in together?” _ is on the tip of his tongue---but he decides against it. The timing’s not right. Not yet. He knows Keith cares for him, loves what they have, but in many ways, their relationship is still new. And Keith is a private person; he still hasn’t shared much of his past with Lance. And that’s okay. Lance won’t force this. He won’t mess this up. 

 

“Sure am, boss man,” he drawls instead of saying something more. Instead of wrapping Keith up in his arms and never letting go, he settles for a quick embrace (Keith doesn’t need to know that his heart’s still racing, and for once, not from being scared) and a chaste kiss against Keith’s temple. 

 

“Lance,” Keith begins, as Lance turns the key over in the ignition, starting the car. “What’s--” 

 

“Hmm?” Lance feigns ignorance, eyes on the road. When did Keith get so good at reading him? 

 

“You--” Keith is interrupted, by a ping from Lance’s phone. “Pidge.” he says, holding it up. 

 

“What’re they up to?” It’s been a long time since he snapped Pidge that afternoon. Ever busy with world domination. Or whatever it is that Pidge does. 

 

Keith reaches for his hand, pressing his thumb against the phone to unlock the screen. 

 

“You know my lock code, babe,” Lance laughs, knitting his fingers together with Keith’s, the other hand on the wheel. It’s a short drive back to the airbnb. 

 

“Yeah, but this way I have an excuse to hold your hand.” Keith tightens his grip. 

 

“Baaaaaaabe,” Lance coos, “That’s so sweeeeet.” 

 

“Pffft.” Keith taps his thumb against Lance’s as he opens the snap with his other hand. “It’s a picture of an empty jar of Nutella and a Monster energy drink and it just says ‘me.’”

 

“Now that’s a mood,” 

 

“I forgot about Nutella,” Keith says, tone wistful. 

 

“Keith, you just ate enough chocolate chip waffles to feed a small army!” 

 

Lance catches Keith scowl out of the corner of his eye. “Nutella is different.” 

 

“How could you possibly,” Lance starts but his phone pings again, this time texts from Pidge. 

 

Keith reads them in his best Pidge voice (which, honestly, is a pretty faithful impression):

 

**From Pidge** : my eyes have been open for 36 hours now

**From Pidge** : I can see time 

 

“Shit,” Lance remarks. 

 

**From Pidge** : btw Lance that was a cute filter but you failed to hide the HUGE ASS BRUISE on your neck so thank you for that. also, hi keith 

 

“Pidge is a little shit,” Lance corrects himself. 

 

“They know too much.” Keith agrees, solemn. The phone pings again. 

 

**Fr** \---

 

“More?!” Lance asks, incredulous. It’s going on six in the morning! But, then again, Pidge has never been one for a normal sleep-wake cycle. 

 

**From Pidge** : who was that kid tho 

 

Keith tilts his head down at the phone. “What kid?” 

 

“Let me see,” Lance grabs for the phone, having parked the car back at the airbnb. “What kid?” he asks, rereading the texts. 

 

**To Pidge** : what kid 

**From Pidge** : so u are awake. Hows the ghosts 

**To Pidge** : ghosts are good. What kid 

 

“If they’re trolling me, I swear,” Lance grimaces down at the phone. 

 

**From Pidge** : in the snap you sent me? There was a little kid 

**From Pidge** : seriously, right behind you

**From Pidge** : I’m tired but I’m not THAT tired  

 

“On a scale from one to Pidge, are they messing with me? They’re messing with me, right?” Lance shows Keith the phone, hysteria building in his chest. 

 

Keith looks at the door to the loft, then back to Lance’s phone. “Uh--” 

 

“Keith.” Lance shakes his head. “You are like, the  _ least _ convincing right now.” 

 

Dread pooling in his gut, Lance is on guard as he enters the loft. Eyes narrowed, he looks around the kitchen, the cute little living room, up the stairs to their bedroom. Everything is as they left it. Begrudgingly, he follows Keith upstairs. 

 

He tries to push the weird dream with the eyes to the back of his mind. The thing with the keys too. 

 

_ What kid?  _

 

_ At least, _ Lance thinks,  _ at least it’s not dark _ . Normally he grumbles about their vids messing with his sleep schedule. But today he crawls into bed, collapsing exhausted next to Keith, and he’s very grateful to slip his sleep mask (baby blue, with “shhh” spelled out in rhinestones) over his face. The sun is almost up.  

 

* 

 

Lance can hear Keith mumbling to himself in the bathroom as he gets ready to shower. The sound of the cabinet shutting after he grabs a towel, the metallic clink of the shower curtain being pulled back, the rush of water. 

 

He rolls over in the bed, splaying out over the entirety of the mattress. Ugh. He can tell he stayed up all night and then slept through the morning. His head feels all foggy. He reaches for his phone. It’s later than he thought, almost four pm. Keith will probably want to review the footage, maybe go back out to the location tonight. 

 

Flipping through his phone, Lance chews at his bottom lip. He’s uneasy. It’s not just the tired feeling. He props himself up on one elbow, looking around the room. Weak light from the winter’s late afternoon struggles through the window. There’s a bookshelf, a little potted plant on one side of the room----the corner opposite where he saw the eyes. Lance tries not to think of it. There’s nothing out of place, but the room just seems  _ off. _ Something is heavy and wrong. 

 

He doesn’t want to be here alone. 

 

He just needs a distraction. He’s just tired. “Heavy and wrong” is just in his mind. 

 

Keith’s mumbles continue to float through the wall separating them. Lance stretches leisurely in the bed, imagining the roll of muscles under skin that by now he knows all too well, slick from water. Ah. There’s his distraction. 

 

Unhurried, he palms himself through his shorts, teasing. Keith had blown him so good while stretching him open, last time they fucked. He mouth purses, tongue passing over his teeth. He wants return the favor.

 

“Knock, knock,” Lance calls into the bathroom, cracking open the door. 

 

Keith hums a response, barely audible over the noise of the shower. One arm slides out from behind the curtain. “Since you’re in here, hand me the face wash.” His fingers motion insistently. 

 

Smirking, Lance obliges him with a blue bottle left out on the sink. Keith now preferring Lance’s skincare products never fails to give him a little spark of satisfaction. (Keith would absolutely die if he knew how much his new favorite face wash costs….But, seeing how Keith is unlikely to stumble into a Sephora, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.) 

 

“Hey,” Lance’s voice is casual, as if his right hand isn’t wrapped around his cock, “Mind if I join you?” 

 

He hears Keith fumble the bottle of face wash. “Fuck, Lance.” 

 

Lance pushes the curtain open just enough for him to step into the shower. When Keith sees that he’s already hard, he repeats the curse: “Fuck, Lance.” 

 

“Articulate as ever, babe,” Lance snickers, stepping under the hot stream of water. His hands trail over Keith---down his ribs to his hips and back up again---as he kisses gently against a bruise he left the night before. Keith presses into the small of his back and Lance groans as his cock slides against slick skin. “I didn’t feel like waiting,” he admits, nibbling at Keith’s collarbones. 

 

“Yeah?” Keith’s eyes follow him down as Lance’s mouth moves from his chest, his abs, to kiss against his hip. 

 

“Yeah,” Lance clarifies, “because.” He takes Keith into his mouth. He can feel Keith’s thighs tense under his fingers. Lance watches Keith’s mouth fall open as he sucks, tongue pressing under the head of his cock, one hand wrapped around the base. 

 

Keith’s hand is on the back of his head, fingers twitching in his hair at his nape. Lance swallows deeper and Keith’s fingers splay, rubbing over the nubs of his spine. His hips quiver. 

 

“Lance,” he breathes when Lance pulls off. Lance’s eyes flick up to his; he takes him deep, nose pressed into dark coarse hair. Keith bends over him, breath caught. His teeth tug at his bottom lip, erotic. 

 

Lance rises to his feet. “Wanna see your face when you come,” he explains, kissing against Keith’s jawline. Keith is especially beautiful like this: the tilt of his head exposing the gorgeous column of his neck, his hair slicked back revealing the delicate widow’s peak of his hairline. Water beading on his lashes, rivulets over his collarbones, his expression slack with pleasure as he thrusts into Lance’s hand.  

 

“So lucky,” Lance’s chest heaves. He’s close himself, “Mm so fucking lucky,” his grip tightens around them both. “Talk to me, wanna hear you,” Lance urges. 

 

Keith moans in response, a soft, feeble noise that goes straight to Lance’s cock.  

 

“P-perfect,” Keith complies, with difficulty. “You’re fuc--perfect,” His head is bowed on Lance’s shoulder, and Lance can feel the heat of his irregular breathes, even through the beat of the hot shower. “I’m--” 

 

He comes with a groan of Lance’s name, hand tightening over Lance’s bicep, expression straining before it softens into something relaxed. Lance pumps him through it, his own orgasm close behind. 

 

The tiles are cold under Lance’s shoulder as he slumps against them. The smile he gives Keith is lazy and sated, “Good morning, Keith.” 

 

“Lance,” Keith says, thumbing over the crest of Lance’s cheekbone. He drapes Lance’s arms over his shoulders, pulling their chests flush together. He holds him tight. It’s a lot---they’re both over sensitive still, and the air is thick and hot, and the water pressure is strong. Keith mumbles something against him and although Lance doesn’t know what he’s said, he _ knows _ . 

 

“Wash my hair?” Lance asks in response, kissing the top of Keith’s head. Keith nods. 

 

*

 

They’re all raisiny and the hot water is probably almost gone, but Lance isn’t in the mood for logical reasons to move. He pouts when he feels Keith pull away from him. 

 

“Did you--” 

 

Lance hums, eyes opening as Keith reaches past him for the handle to turn the shower off. “Babe, I’m still all sudsy,” he protests. He’s not. 

 

“No. I thought.” Keith flips the water off with a twist of his wrist. “I heard something.” 

 

Lance stands stock still, listening. Keith puts a hand up to his lips, eyes ticking to the side as he concentrates. 

 

They’re dripping wet and this is ridiculous, and Lance is getting way too freaked out---the wonderful hot of the shower is replaced with goosebumps, he’s suffocating and it’s not just the haze of humidity---and  _ he’s so over this place _ and about to say something, when---he hears it too. 

 

_ pit pat pit pat pitpatpitpat _

 

Sounds like….

 

Keith pulls back the shower curtain so abruptly that a little yelp escapes Lance’s lips. Hand over his heart, he follows Keith’s gaze to the tiled floor. He frowns, what is…

 

Footprints. 

 

Wet footprints lead out of the bathroom, past the threshold, on to the hardwood floor of their bedroom. Lance shakes his head, no. No. 

 

Eyes still studying the floor, Keith snags a towel. “We gotta,” he starts. 

 

“Keith.” Lance grips his arm. He turns and Lance motions to the mirror above the sink. It’s fogged up, save for four lines running parallel across it. Fingers dragged through the condensation. They have not yet begun to bleed out of shape, but water pools at the edge of the lines, almost drips.   

 

“They were just here,” Keith breathes, shoving the towel at Lance. “C’mon, we have to…”

 

“Fuck no,” Lance towels off faster than he ever has, arguing, but---they both stop when they move to exit the bathroom. 

 

The closet door is open. The footprints lead in that direction, disappearing into the dark.  

 

“Did you--” Lance stammers. 

 

“No. I didn’t.” Keith pulls on a pair of jeans, already headed towards that side of the room. 

 

That’s it. The eyes, okay, he dreamed that. The keys, well, that was weird, but whatever. The disturbing comment from Pidge was just them messing with him. The creepy as shit feeling that’s settled over the house, well, he’s just tired. But this. The fucking closet door is open and there are footprints and fu--what was that out of the corner of his eye--- _ Lance has had it.  _ Fuck airbnb and fuck this room in particular. It’s time to leave. 

 

“W-wait,” Lance is barely into boxers, swearing, “Keith, let’s just--”

 

The shower curtain clamors behind him. Lance jumps and rushes to Keith’s side, just as he’s walking into the closet. 

 

“Keith,” Lance hisses. “Fuck this.” 

 

Flicking the light on, Lance sees the raised eyebrow Keith gives him in reply. “There’s nothing here,” he says. The asshole almost sounds disappointed. It’s a good thing Lance loves him, because, really? 

 

Besides the slight wetness on the floor, the closet seems innocuous. Some hangars, a couple boxes pushed against the wall. “Good, let’s grab our stuff and leave.” 

 

“What’s that?” 

 

“What’s what?!” Lance scowls but Keith fails to answer, craning his neck to look at the ceiling. There’s a square surrounded by molding, just over their heads. 

 

“I bet it leads to the attic,” Keith decides, already pulling the boxes away from the wall. He climbs on one, pushing open the door on the ceiling. “Help me up?” 

 

“This is the worst,” Lance shakes his head, arms around Keith’s legs. “You’re the worst.” 

 

Keith makes a noise of agreement, before tapping excitedly on the top of Lance’s head. “There’s something up here!” 

 

“No no no no no,” Lance closes his eyes, tightening his grip on Keith. He doesn’t elaborate so Lance opens one eye, impatient. “Well, what is it?” 

 

“I don’t know--be right back,” 

 

“No! Keith!” Lance makes a grab at him, but Keith has already hoisted himself into the attic. His feet disappear from view. 

 

“Keith,” Lance repeats, voice tremulous. They slept most of the day, and the sun is setting. It seems like it’s getting darker by the minute. Above him, he can hear shuffling, and then an exclamation from Keith. He shivers. “I swear to god if you don’t come back down here,” 

 

Keith drops down, not even out of breath. He holds out his hand, showing the contents to Lance: “Your keys.” 

 

“What. The fuck.” Lance takes them from him, and the hair stands on the back of his neck, “How--where?” 

 

Keith points out of the closet to the ceiling above their bed. “Right there. Right above the bed.” He shakes his head. “We would have never found them up there.” 

 

Lance closes his eyes. He feels sick. He can’t think about that. The keys cut into the palm of his hand, he’s squeezing them so hard. “We have. To go.” 

 

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, “But first,” 

 

_ Knock.  _

 

_ Knock. Knock.  _

 

Lance whips his head at the noise. It came from downstairs. The front door. Before he can protest, Keith is ahead of him, taking the stairs two at a time. Lance follows, not about to be alone in this bedroom. 

 

“Doesn’t seem like anyone is out there,” Keith says, peering through the windows, then the peephole. He turns the deadbolt and pulls the door open. Nothing. He shuts the door again, locking it. He moves past Lance, towards the kitchen where their equipment is. “I’m going to get the thermal cam,” 

 

“The fuck you are,” Lance stomps his foot in protest, indifferent about how petulant he looks, “I’m getting the hell out of here, like, yesterday,” 

 

_ Thump thump thump thumpthumpthump _

 

“It followed us down the stairs,” Keith hisses. 

 

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Lance begins a litany of expletives, standing in the middle of the hall, keys clenched in his hand, staring up the stairs into the bedroom, terrified. “Keith, where is it?” 

 

Fiddling with the thermal cam, Keith shakes his head. “I don’t see--”

 

Untouched, the EVP recorder bursts into static on the kitchen table:

 

**_“-------w------------ay-------”_ **

 

Lance turns his head, sees the light of the EVP recorder change from red to green out of the corner of his eye. “Ke-ke-kei--” 

 

**_“-------ay------ni-----”_ **

 

Lance feels like his knees might be buckling. “What,” he whispers, not wanting to hear the answer. 

 

“We’re listening,” Keith says, voice clear, “But get closer to the recorder, so we can hear what you’re saying.”

 

**_“-------we play nice-----”_ **

 

Lance moans, nearly dropping the keys. 

 

_ KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK _

 

Lance spins around. The front door is wide open. 

 

Trembling, he moves to shut it, 

 

“Lance,” Keith says, too late--

 

There’s a little boy standing behind the door. He tilts his head, smiling at Lance. 

 

Lance shrieks, arms windmilling as he trips and falls backwards. Head rolling to the side, he catches a glimpse under the couch. The same eyes he saw that first night--wide black pupils, sclera bright---stare back at him. He screams. 

 

He rolls to his side, away from the couch, scrambling to get up.

 

“Wha--” Keith starts to ask, but it turns into an “ooof!” as he’s swept to the ground. Something has him by the ankle. His other leg kicks recklessly at the air with no success. He’s being pulled up the stairs. 

 

“Keith!” Lance shouts, tackling him. Pulling him back down, “Get off him!!” 

 

“Play nice, my ass, you shitty little---” 

 

With a lurch, Keith is released. They both go toppling down the stairs, a mess of limbs and cursing. 

 

“Our stuff!!” Keith pants, “Grab our stuff and let’s get out of here!” 

 

“Ya think?!” Lance flails his arms, already on his feet. “C’mon!” 

 

*

 

Lance grips the steering wheel with deadly force. His knee jiggles up and down, the adrenaline not quite out of his system. 

 

Keith takes a deep breath beside him. He fastens his seatbelt. Runs a hand through his hair. 

 

Lance squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip. Giving up, he throws his head back and wails: “That! Was awful!!” 

 

Exhaling all at once, Keith nods wildly, agreeing. He jabs the lock button on the car door, shouting, “It had me by the fucking ankle!!!! Shit!!!”  

 

“We couldn’t handle it at all!!” Lance is thumping the steering wheel for emphasis. “We almost died!!! It was the ghosts who did the busting!!!!” 

 

“I was NOT in control of the situation!!” Keith swears. “And we didn’t even catch it on video!” 

 

Lance shoots him a dirty look, eyes narrowed like,  _ really? That’s what you’re worried about?  _

 

Keith raises his shoulders, hands spread in front of him like,  _ hey, why not? _

 

And then, emotions frayed, they’re both cackling. Lance has tears in his eyes, gasping for air: “Oh my god Keith, oh my god!”

 

“It wasn’t even my place! You brought us here!!” Keith heaves out, one hand pressed to his forehead in disbelief. 

 

Lance slumps over in his seat, vowing, “Next time we go out of town, you’re booking the place we stay!” He slips into a mumble, “I am going to leave this place the worst fucking review ever….But this was so cute at first...and to think I wanted to  _ live  _ there…”

 

Keith makes a consoling noise, puts his hand over Lance’s knee. “Better let me choose our apartment then,” he jokes. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, I--huh?” 

 

“Uh-- _ shit that’s probably comingontoostrong, _ um,” Keith withdraws his hand, tugging nervously at one of the studs in his ear. He attempts to gather his thoughts. “I mean, so, if we---if you--” 

 

“I do!” Lance twists in the driver’s seat to face Keith. The poor guy looks more unnerved now than he ever has from anything ghostly.  

 

“Do what?” 

 

“Want to move in together!” Lance waves his hands between them. “That’s what you’re talking about, right?” 

 

“Yes?” Keith’s gaze drops to his lap. He picks at a torn cuticle on one of his nails, quiet for a moment. “Shit. You do?” The faintest smile plays over his countenance. “I--Wow.” His eyes flutter and he presses his lips together tightly. 

 

“Auuugh!” Lance scrubs his hands through his hair. It’s criminal that Keith should look like that and not be in his arms. “Why is the closest bedroom in a goddamn paranormal activity movie!!” 

 

Keith replies slowly, “I mean, I’m willing if you’re---” 

 

“After that?!” Incredulous, Lance gives him a look. “Nope! Not happening,” He starts the car, “Dead people voyeurism is not something I’m into, personally, and getting scared out of my mind is not foreplay, Keith.”

 

“Well, except for--” 

 

“Keith.” 

 

“It’s almost an eight hour drive back to your apartment.” Keith points out. 

 

Lance huffs, throwing the car into reverse. 

 

They make it in seven. 

 

*

 

**Two Months Later** : 

 

Lance hangs up his apron in the back room of the craft store. He shoots a couple of finger guns at Maureen and the new hire who’s working the register on his way out the door, shouting that he’ll probably stop in tomorrow. He’s not scheduled, but the latest planogram looks like a bitch. They might need an extra set of hands. 

 

It’s a beautiful day. He’s just walking from the store to his car at the back of the parking lot, but something about the air or the temperature gives Lance’s already jaunty gait a little extra bounce. it seems like spring is finally peeking through the long, drab winter. That means summer is nearly here!  And summer means cookouts with Hunk and chilling by the pool, and  _ what are the chances of getting Keith’s pasty pale ass to a beach?  _

 

The beginning of summer also means that it’ll be one year since he met Keith. Almost an anniversary of sorts. The thought squeezes something tight in Lance’s chest and the text he sends Keith has a few extra heart emojis as a result: 

 

**To Keith:** omw! be home soon babe 

**From Keith:** cool. I was thinking I’d cook tonight 

 

Lance grins down at his phone. Despite his best efforts, Keith ‘cooking’ still means one thing: takeout. He mentioned craving tikka masala last night so Keith’s probably thinking of the indian place nearby they both love. 

 

**To Keith:** get me an extra order of naan?

**From Keith:** already done 

**From Keith:** babe 

 

Lance snorts. Keith is definitely making fun of his overuse of hearts. He sends a few more for good measure before shifting into drive. 

 

They moved into an apartment together a little less than a month ago. Not too far from Lance’s job, and still close to Shiro’s place that he and Keith used to share. It has an extra bedroom which Keith has already crammed with books and turned into an editing space for their videos. They rented out a garage, and it’s big enough for both Keith’s bike and Lance’s car, provided he manages to park decently. Even Keith’s cats, Red and Black, seem to be adjusting well to the move. 

 

And best of all: there have been no--- zero, zip, nada---ghost related incidents. Not a single spook. (Lance is secretly very glad he let Keith pick the place. Not that he will ever admit it). 

 

Keith beats him home, but just barely. He walks in to find Keith settled in on the couch, hair pulled into a messy top-knot, balancing a foil takeout container on one knee as he flips through the channels, trying to decide what to watch. He steadies the container expertly with one hand as Lance leans over the back of the couch to plant a sloppy kiss over his mouth.  

 

Keith looks up at him and smiles. “Good timing. Just got home.” 

 

“Chill.” Lance frowns at the television. “Don’t tell me---”

 

Keith cuts him off. “Okay, yeah, this guy’s a crackpot, but the other guy has made a couple decent points---”

 

“Keith, the last episode we watched, they said that Nikola Tesla was receiving communication from outer space.”  Lance makes a grab at the remote, but Keith’s reflexes are too fast. “They said the aliens were telling him to build cell towers all over the world to communicate via alien electricity.” 

 

“How can you prove they weren’t?” 

 

Lance sighs in response. Keith not-so-subtly moves the remote control under his legs. Lance caves. He’s too gone. There’s no helping it. “Fine. But for every time they mention the ancient Egyptians for no reason, I’m stealing a bite of the ice cream you have stashed in the back of the  freezer.” 

 

Keith says something rude as soon as Lance is out of earshot, he’s sure of it. He returns a minute later, drink in hand and ready to drag every single word that comes out of Giorgio A. Tsoukalos’ mouth. 

 

Once the takeout is demolished, and Giorgio has been dragged to the moon and back, Keith hops off the couch to grab something from his bag in the other room. He returns a few minutes later. “Check this out.” He flips through his notebook and pulls out a couple of printouts. “I was at the library--” 

 

“Nerd.” 

 

Keith shoots him an unimpressed look and continues: “I was at the library, doing research for our next shoot, and check out what I found while scanning through the microfilm.” 

 

Lance skims the newspaper clipping: “ _ Twins Never Found Following the Death of Their Father. The body of one Michael Sloat was discovered dead in his bedroom….twin boys mysteriously vanished...probable murder… _ .” He looks up at Keith, confused. “Creepy.” 

 

Keith nods. “Look at the address.” 

 

Lance reads through the rest of the blurb until he finds the location. He drops the paper. “Fuck.” A chill runs down his spine. “Fuck, Keith, really?” 

 

Keith picks up the article and slides it back into his notebook. “I wonder who had the bright idea to refurbish the space into lofts and rent it out on airbnb?” He grins at Lance. “Maybe we should revisit and make it an official episode?” 

 

“Like hell we should.” Lance rubs the goosebumps on his arms. “I think the fuck not, Keith. Three nights was enough for me.” He gets up from the couch, gathering the empty containers to throw away. 

 

“Ice cream?” Keith asks innocently. 

 

Lance crosses behind the couch but stops dead in his tracks upon seeing the kitchen. His mouth goes dry. 

 

“K-ke-keith.” It doesn’t come out loud enough. He wants to turn, but can’t seem to make his body corporate. He manages throw an arm back,  _ come here _ , and croak out, louder this time: “Keith!” 

 

The kitchen is….

 

Every cabinet door is wide open. The kitchen drawers are all pulled out. The chairs are pushed back from the table. 

 

Lance takes a step back, shaking his head. This cannot be happening. 

 

Keith joins him at the entryway into the kitchen. 

 

Lance is hoarse, speaking under his breath, “...I was  _ just _ in here, this can’t be happening, we’ve lived here for like a month, nothing like this-- nothing so far…” He looks at Keith. “What should we do?” 

 

“I guess we just see if anything else happens?” Keith chews on his lip. “Don’t wanna jump to conclusions.” 

 

“Y-yeah.” Lance agrees, voice still shaky. That’s…..

 

Wait. 

 

He looks at Keith. Keith is looking at the ceiling, bottom lip still caught in his teeth. Lance stares at him. “Wait a minute…” 

 

Keith’s eyes dart to Lance before resuming their exploration of the lighting fixtures overhead. 

 

“You---” 

 

Keith’s mouth curls up into a grin. 

 

“You jerk!!!” 

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Keith lies, fulling grinning now. 

 

“You ghost-loving-piece-of-shit-MOTHER--” Lance drops the takeout containers on the counter and lunges at Keith. “I’ll kill you!!” 

 

Keith is fast, but Lance has longer limbs. It’s only a moment of tussling before he has Keith wrapped up in his arms, back tucked against his chest. 

 

His whole body is rumbling with laughter against Lance. “The look on your face!” 

 

“I’ll kill you!” Lance threatens again. 

 

Keith twists around, easily unpinning himself from Lance’s grip. He buries his face against Lance, pressing a kiss to the dip at the base of his neck. “I’d haunt you,” he decides. 

 

“The fuck you would.” Lance shakes him, more gently than he should. “You’re haunting me now!” 

  
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> my boys! My ghost loving klance boys! Fun fact, this was originally meant to be a pwp fic set in this au (hence the title hahaha) but it developed into something quite different. Hope you liked it! 
> 
> Like always, if I’m not asleep, at work, or on ao3, you can find me @jacqulinetan on twitter. Thank you for reading <3
> 
> BONUS: [THE GHOST KIDS SAW US FUCK](https://twitter.com/jacqulinetan/status/1079097026850111489) a ficlet, courtesy of a really really excellent comment below :D


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